


Guarda, Senza Parlare

by sleazyjanet



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Teachers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 17:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20510999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleazyjanet/pseuds/sleazyjanet
Summary: How Aziraphale and Crowley, two Hogwarts teachers, appear from other people's perspectives, a simple 3+1 fic.Or,Three times people believed they were together, but didn't have full proof, and one time a person didn't believe it and they got the proof that they were.





	Guarda, Senza Parlare

**Author's Note:**

> HULLO again, it's me! here to bring the teachers au. it's past midnight for me but not the US so it counts as the third day of the #gomensficweek2019 
> 
> once again a shoutout to the msfc gc for this and i really enjoyed this one, hope you all do too!!
> 
> signed,
> 
> a rat

**I — Adam, end of 2019**

  
  


Everyone knows Hogwarts is a peculiar school in general, with there being magic and magical creatures, and teachers who will either be too kind to you, too aggressive or simply too uncaring. Even the idea of these  _ Houses _ separating everyone is peculiar, but there is nothing more peculiar than the two teachers that seem to be inhabiting the school since the beginning of times.

Professor Aziraphale is the Charms teacher and to call him The Teacher would not be wrong, if not for the fact that he has a fellow who has been there as long as him, Professor Crowley, the Herbology teacher.

Before he so comes to Hogwarts, after receiving his letter, Adam meets Anathema, a former student and aspiring Divination teacher, and she introduces him to all the magical things and, first and foremost, she introduces him to these two teachers. 

"Nobody knows how old they are or how they manage to stay looking this young for so long," the young woman tells him over tea and biscuits, "but my great grandma – well, she's more than a  _ great _ grandma, but the number is too large – who's five hundred years old now tells me they were as young then, five hundred years ago, as they are now."

"How young are we talking?" asks Adam, and her response turns out to be rather inaccurate for the mind of a kid.

They're not  _ young _ per se, it turns out. They're in their fifties or seventies at least, not that Adam can tell old people's ages apart, but given that they should be much older than that, it is, in the end, a mystery he means to solve.

However, their age isn't the only mystery. Adam finds that out soon enough as well.

The two teachers are always together: drinking tea, discussing their students' grades and simply enjoying each other's company. Despite their old age and clear senior status they are not Heads of their respective Houses, which allows them to have close quarters as well — quarters so close Adam comes to realize the line between the two often blurs.

The gossip is that they are immortal beings, and in love. And that much Adam can accept.

What he cannot accept is that despite the two being close and words from people who were there in the past, he has no actual proof that they're any of these things.

So he decides to find out by himself. Luckily, he's not alone in this. Not caring about the differences between the Houses, he, a very curious Ravenclaw, is friends with Wensleydale, another Ravenclaw, and two Gryffindors, Pepper and Brian. 

The four of them call each other the Them and he's the leader, and given that they've already had three months to investigate and there's now fewer people around for Christmas time, they've decided to hide before their offices in the armors and use Extendable Ears to hear what they're saying.

It's only around an hour later, however, that the two finally stop before Professor Crowley's office, seemingly in the middle of an argument.

"Listen, my dear," says Aziraphale, laying a hand on the taller teacher's shoulder. Adam mouths ' _ Told ya' _ to his friends at the pet name. "I do understand. Gorillas are dramatically important, but you can't really expect the middle class to be able to do anything about it."

"The middle class buys the products!" argues the lanky teacher.

"What're they talking about?" questions Pepper through another Extendable Ear.

"Gobbles," retorts Adam with a shrug that he realizes too late she can't really see.

"...you should at least push them onto the right path, angel," insists Professor Crowley, following his remark by muttering the password to his office. "It's your job, remember?"

The shorter teacher scoffs. "My job has been failing ever since we're here. No point for the both of us to be here, and yet here we are."

"I just couldn't stay away from you," Professor Crowley says, grinning and batting his lashes at the other teacher teasingly. When the other slaps him on the arm, he sighs. "There are others of our kinds all around the globe and we're hardly absent. We can get out anytime. For a stroll, for a temptation, for a meal at the Ritz—."

"For  _ crêpes _ in France!"

That elicits a chuckle. "Yes, for crêpes in France, as w— what the  _ fuck?"  _

"Language!"

The tall teacher scoffs, glaring at his fellow. Then, he plops to the floor and picks up—  _ oh shit _ .

_ It's— " _ An Extendable Ear?!"

Professor Aziraphale leans over and inspects it, following the cord attached to the Ear, until his eyes land directly on Adam's.

"Who are you and why are you spying on us?" asks Professor Aziraphale simultaneously with Professor Crowley ripping the armor apart and revealing a very oddly calm Adam.

The lanky teacher frowns. "Adam Young?! Why?" 

"We— I mean," he coughs and looks to the side where Pepper and Wensleydale are hidden, "I just wanted to know if you two were immortal and dating."

The two teachers laugh then, exchanging very bemused looks. "Of course not, darling. Don't concern yourself with such fickle matters," the nicer teacher reassures him, while Professor Crowley glares at him all over, his hips swayed to the side in such an inhuman way it's impossible he's at all human himself.

"Yesss," he hisses, "and don't worry, we won't take points from your House."

Professor Aziraphale frowns at that, laying hand on the small of Professor Crowley's back. "Are you sure, my dear?"

The lanky teacher nods. "Angel, it's your House, you should tell me not to punish them without question. But, alas," he turns to the first year, "I will not punish you out of my own kindness. Now, shoo off!"

He does. He runs fast until he turns the corner, then waits for his friends to free themselves. Though the mission seems unhelpful and not at all successful, he  _ knows _ and his suspicions are confirmed to be shared by the others when the Them join him.

"He calls him  _ angel _ ," points out Pepper, "that's a pet name. It's sweet and romantic."

"Actually, there is a lot of secret physical affection between them, too," adds Wensleydale.

"And Professor Aziraphale called Professor Crowley  _ dear  _ at least twice," Brian notes.

Adam nods. The evidence is there. "Their initial discussion also seemed very… well, very immortal-like," he admits.

"They're in love and immortal," finishes Pepper.

And Adam accepts it to be true.

  
  
  
  


**II — Anathema, end of 2026/beginning of 2027**

  
  


Anathema joins Hogwarts as a Divination teacher in the year 2026, when the Them are already seventh years and though they promised to maintain good grades in Divination, they failed.

She doesn't blame them, though.

The school is sweet as always. Familiar. Nothing seems to have changed. Not the classrooms, not the Quidditch pitch, not the Great Hall. Though, as each year, there is a new song sung by the Hat, everything else is the same.

Above all, the two teachers. Professors Aziraphale and Crowley.

Even now that she's a teacher she finds it hard to speak of them other than formally. They're still teachers,  _ her _ teachers, to her. 

And they're as peculiar as ever, though there seems to be an aura of oldness around them, too, now, that there wasn't before. Despite not having aged, the two appear tired, as if something has bothered them so much that they now can't really live with it simply.

She intends to find out what it is, of course. She's good at investigating, after all. Her eyes are now trained at spotting the untraceable, at noticing the slight switches in one's face. Anathema's rather proud of her skills of deduction, and of foreseeing, though the latter are not as great as her great grandma's. 

But nobody's ever are. Her great grandma is unmatched, but it doesn't mean Anathema can't at least try and be as good. It never harms anyone, at least she hopes it doesn't, when she looks into the future or past and learns what they've done.

Alright, so perhaps it  _ does _ harm people, but Anathema won't let that stop her.

The first few weeks are very busy, as they are wont to be. The new third year students warm up to her quickly, but all those above simply deem her unworthy and decide to ignore her every attempt at socialising.

It takes a breakdown, a letter to her great grandmother and a cup of tea prepared by the ever dear new caretaker, a squib named Newton Pulsifer to calm her down and finally set up a proper program that the students can follow and cannot, under any circumstance, disobey.

They do disobey, but it's better around November, and then in December they completely calm down.

The Them do visit her sometimes, and at times it's even the Two Teachers themselves, offering her cookies and tea, and inviting her to their offices.

It's only on the fourteenth of February that, however, she finds the time to finally to take on their offer as all the students from third years and up are in Hogsmeade and, it turns out, the two teachers mean to visit the town as well, and invite her to join them.

"Truly, I don't mean to impose," she initially says.  _ It's lovers' day, shouldn't you two celebrate it together? _

But then Crowley rolls his eyes and mutters, "See? I told you she didn't want to hang out with the oldest people around here!"

And she decides that she'll be damned if she doesn't join them and watches how they behave.

They meet near Zonko's Joke Shop (reopened).

"You look nice, dear," Aziraphale compliments her with a smile, and though Crowley doesn't say it as well, she notices a nod. 

"Thank you, Professor," she smiles back weakly.

"Don't call him Professor," Crowley grunts, "he feels old when people do that. Mostly if they're not students anymore."

Aziraphale slaps Crowley's arm and the smirk it brings back makes Anathema feels like she's intruding, as if she isn't truly in the conversation, only an outsider to it. "I  _ don't _ feel old!" Then the teacher turns to her and, shaking his head, adds, "Do call me whatever you please. Now," he looks at the shop near them, "shall we buy something here or go to the Three Broomsticks?"

Crowley shakes his head. "As if you'd ever buy anything here."

"I was thinking of your distinguished tastes in objects to buy, dear," he retorts innocently.

"Sly bastard."

Unhelpfully and also very much without planning, Anathema coughs and it interrupts the banter, solemn and somber looks returning on the two teachers' faces. 

The Three Broomsticks are not far off and the walk there is charged with conversation so two-sided Anathema wishes she had at least brought a notepad to entertain herself with as the two teachers, though occasionally referring to her, talk about the different traditions in the muggle world, a conversation which continues even as they sit down.

"No, Muggles in Britain truly are wont to bring chocolates, flowers and go on a night out at the opera, I tell you," insists Aziraphale over his large mug of Butterbeer.

"And I tell you your info is outdated, angel," argues Crowley.

"Is not."

"Is so."

"I'm _ telling _ you, Crowley, my info isn't outdated. I'll have you know I listened to a few rather interesting things yesterday on the  _ radio _ ," the last word is whispered but she hears it anyway, "and the chocolates, flowers and the opera are still on the get go."

"Nah."

"Yes!"

"Well," intrudes Anathema, trudging slowly and carefully. The two snap back to her but she doesn't let it intimidate her. "Your info isn't _ entirely _ wrong, prof— Aziraphale. They  _ do _ still bring chocolates and flowers, occasionally, but they rarely go to the opera now."

"Rarely doesn't mean never," says Aziraphale triumphantly.

"You got the chocolates and flowers right, I'll allow that," Crowley says instead.

"You rather well should," the chubby professor smirks with the remark and glances at Crowley knowingly, as if they share a secret gag that Anathema isn't allowed into. "If I recall correctly it was 1798 when—."

The lanky teacher shushes him, then, a finger on his puckered lips. "Right, right," he groans, "expose me to the entire world, do."

Aziraphale shrugs and takes a sip of his butterbeer. "Rather proves my point, dear, that's all."

Anathema doesn't even question it when Crowley huffs and stretches so on the wooden seat he nearly drapes himself all over the other teacher, the latter seemingly unconcerned completely.

It's only when Anathema brings up the pudding that they are serving at Madam Puddifoot's, and how it is a perfect meal for couples and how they'd be damned if they didn't go there together, that the two collect themselves, if only a little, and Aziraphale looks down with a saddened look in his green-blue eyes.

"I almost am damned already," he whines so softly she barely hears it, and then when Crowley tries to comfort him, he shakes him away and excuses himself.

The lanky teacher shoots her a glare before storming off after him, and like that, she is left sat on the table with two unfinished butterbeers that aren't even her own.

She learns two things then: the two are definitely married, they've been together since at least 1798, and that she should never bring up damnation around Aziraphale  _ or  _ Crowley.

  
  
  


**III — Madame Tracy, May of 2021**

  
  


Madame Tracy owns the establishment of theThree Broomsticks and has owned it for at least two decades now. It's not very chic, nor entirely in her style with its simple wooden chairs and tables, but she's rather fond of it anyway, having bought it from an owner so jealous of the establishment it took two bets, a dare and the Great Magical War to finally break the witch.

She, herself, of course, is also a witch. She's well over her eighties now, but still looking young. Nobody ever gives her over fifty years, after all, and she's very proud of it, for her looks are, if not the only reason, a major reason why people still come to the Three Broomsticks even now that the drinks served are rarely sweet enough or too sweet and the food is good, yes, but too mugglish for the wizard standards.

However, despite her advanced age, there isn't a bone in her that doubts that she isn't the only one who looks younger than she truly is.

In fact, there are more people than she could count, but none older than the two teachers, Mr. and Mr. Aziraphale. Aziraphale and Crowley.

Nobody really knows  _ how _ old they are, but Tracy's great grandma was their student, and so was her great grandma before her and she is sure if anyone checked the records, her great grandma before that one would also have known them, and they all claim they are not only immortal, but also a couple. A peculiar one.

Still, until she fully managed to see firsthand their peculiar not-aging and their odd conversations, she believed all of that to be a farce.

As it is, however, this is now her twenty-fifth year taking care of the Three Broomsticks, and the twenty-fifth year that she's allowed to witness all their behaviors.

And there are plenty of those: sometimes they're cheeky and bantering; sometimes they almost hold hands and drink butterbeer in silence; sometimes they stare at each other in yearning, neither daring to apologize for whatever has happened.

Today is even more peculiar, somehow.

It's nearly the end of the school year and the exams are afoot, which means all the students are very busy studying and all the teachers are busy grading tests and preparing the exams. She's only expecting outsiders or locals to come to her establishment, today.

And yet there they come.

It's around five in the afternoon, tea time, and they come into the pub calmly, as if there's not a care in the world, though there is a certain dark air to their persons. They sit at opposite ends of a table — which they not always do. Sometimes, she feels, they need to stay close, their thighs brushing and their hands possibly holding.

But not today.

"There truly wasn't a trial?" aks Aziraphale brokenly, and though Madame Tracy hates eavesdropping, she immediately stops scrubbing her glass and listens in carefully. "But—But— your people gave me– well,  _ you, _ one!"

Crowley nods, laying a hand on Aziraphale's and squeezing it. "I know. You'd expect no kindness from my kind, not yours, but then again, they did kick me out just for—."

"Yes. They did." Aziraphale gazes deeply into those cat or snake-like eyes Crowley seems to present and sighs. "It wasn't your fault. I'm glad you at least had some fun despite the lack of a trial."

"Oh, I had fun alright. I breathed  _ fire _ at Gabriel, Uriel and that prick Sandalphon."

Aziraphale scrunches up his nose and  _ bleh's _ in disgust. "Sodoma and Gomorrah." He waves his hand. "Still can't forgive him for it."

"No redemption allowed."

"There wouldn't have been one for us either. There  _ still  _ isn't one. But at least they'll leave us alone. They wouldn't dare attack me if they know not even  _ that  _ can kill me, something that even your kind isn't immune to. And you? Oh, dear, you are safe forever, I reckon. They fear you, and so many witnessed it. Even Michael did. You're safe.  _ We _ 're safe."

Crowley seems to allow it, though with his back slightly turned to Madame Tracy she can barely see it. "For a while. Then they'll fuck us up again."

"We'll be ready."

"Aren't we always?"

Aziraphale turns his hand and lets the other man's fingers interlace with his own. "Yes, we rather are, dear. Always ahead by a step."

"Well, to us not tripping," he chuckles, and only then he seems to realize he has nothing to do the toast with, for he turns to the rather preoccupied and curious bartender and calls for two fire whiskeys.

Their conversation switches then, to exams and what not, but with the pub almost entirely empty they seem not to hold back on the hand holding and the soft smiles.

Madame Tracy feels like a voyeur, but also extremely lucky.  _ They're like this because I'm the only one here _ , she realizes, and though she can't be sure that the two are aware of their feelings for each other, and just how obviously romantic their interactions appear to others, she knows two things: one, that they have some Kinds of people who have been very rude to them, and two, that they are indeed very in love.

A peculiar couple indeed.

  
  
  


**+I — Newt, late 2029**

Being a squib isn't easy. People undermine you, they always do. No matter how hard you try to impress them, muggles think you odd and wizards believe you're not to play with them, for you are  _ weak _ , and not gifted.

To be fair, of course, Newton Pulsifer  _ does _ have some powers. The power, for one, to ruin absolutely anything that was enchanted before, or technological. He's what one would call a curse-breaker, for he could break, by wishing to fix, anything. And yet nobody ever hires him for anything.

But he doesn't let it hurt him. And anyway, not everyone is unkind. The young Professor Anathema Device is very kind to him, indeed. And then there's the unlikely and still very young Headmistress, Mary Loquacious, who offered him this job and who seems to believe him good enough to at least clean.

But nobody is nicer than Professor Aziraphale. Professor Crowley, who's always there with him is also kind, but it's only him accommodating his  _ angel _ of course, not actual generosity, and it's certainly nothing compared to Professor Aziraphale sometimes cleaning up for him, or baking him biscuits and cakes, or giving him new clothes when his own clothes seems to get torn or worn out somehow.

He's very fond of Professor Aziraphale. That isn't to say he doesn't appreciate his shadow. Professor Aziraphale may have a kind heart for everyone, but he seems to truly dote only on adults, whom he regards as people to at least talk to, whereas Professor Crowley cares for the  _ children _ and  _ that, _ Newt finds, is very noble.

They're a rather queer pair. They balance each other out and seem to discuss anything, but despite the gossip Newt doesn't really believe that they're _ together. _ Yes, they're immortal, he has several  _ slides  _ — if he could actually operate a computer to make a slide — to prove that, but in a relationship? Definitely not.

One day, before New Year's Eve, he finds himself walking to Professor Aziraphale's office, intent on asking him whether it's possible for him, a squib, to learn at least one spell — the one to conjure a bouquet of roses for Anathema — and if he would  _ absolutely _ need a wand for that.

He doesn't knock, too caught up in his thoughts, and immediately comes to regret it.

As soon as he opens the door, his greeting stuck in his mouth half-formed, he comes face to face with Professor Aziraphale passionately kissing Professor Crowley while pinning him to his desk, the taller man using his legs to bring the kind teacher closer.

Newt whines and immediately jumps away, closing the door behind him loudly.

_ They're fucking. Bonking. Fucking doing it. Bang—. _

"Newton!" Professor Aziraphale's ragged voice calls after him and he reluctantly turns around. There's a flush deepening on the teacher's face, and his shirt is askew, his buttons buttoned wrongly, but above all, he looks mortified. "Newton, dear, please don't tell anyone. Our people — not  _ you _ or any wizard — wouldn't take too kindly on this—."

Professor Crowley appears next to him and brings him near. "And if you were to say anything, word would spread quite fast. Speculation is alright, you know."

"But facts are hard to fight against," agrees Professor Aziraphale. "So if you'd be a dear and didn't say it to anyone, we'd be very grateful."

Newt can't help but nod. He doesn't feel good enough for a task so serious, not to spread the word about something  _ so large _ , but by the seriousness in the teachers' voices he knows he can't allow himself to be stupid, or weak.

So he promises himself not to tell anyone. 

A week later Anathema finds out, but she promises to only tell the Them.

He hopes that doesn't muck things up.

  
  



End file.
